


basic thermodynamics

by gunfever



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Car Sex, Deepthroating, Dom/sub Undertones, Gun Kink, M/M, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, ripsaw needs more love, the bullet farmer is a gross man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 08:04:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8320243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunfever/pseuds/gunfever
Summary: The Peacemaker squad is out scouting and it gets cold. The Ripsaw Imperator looks out for his Farmer and gets more than he expected.





	

He’d nearly forgotten that the desert got cold at night. When a scouting crew reported Buzzard activity a hair too close to his precious Farm, he’d refused to sit this one out. To give the Boys a little something to respect their Major for, and maybe to get out of the pit with its endless clamor and glare. Now he’s camped out with his elite in the Peacekeeper in some godforsaken corner of the Wastes, waiting for some damn Buzzards to rear their heads—not like they would at this hour. Kalashnikov can’t remember how long he’s been awake. He pulled the frayed tarp up and grit his teeth, focusing instead on the view overhead.

The thing about the sky these days, he mused, it doesn’t even try to hide the stars. Like it’s lost the shame it had Before. The spattering of light was like someone’d shot holes in the roof of the world. Like _he’d_ shot it—what with the tales his old ally had been spinning, any number of his soldiers would believe it to be true.

Well, most of them. A select few Kalashnikov’d never want to believe any of the horseshit the others did. A few he wanted to respect him not as a God (or even the right hand of one) but as a man. These select few were his crew, his team he trusted with his life on a daily basis. His crew functioned like a well-oiled machine, he thought. Heh. Like a gatling gun, almost, himself the ammunition and his favorite Imperator the heavy steel.

“Cold, Boss?” the hushed voice of the Imperator in question asks. Damn. He’d been shivering despite his best efforts. Kalashnikov starts to shake his head, then pauses. Ripsaw wouldn’t be fooled by that.

Plus, he really _was_ cold.

“Yah. You bring any extra tarps?” He knew they hadn’t expected to be out this long, but there was no harm in asking. “Fatigues’re doing fuckall in this weather.”

“Sorry, already checked. This rag’s all we got.”

Fuck. It was getting so cold he couldn’t keep himself from shivering any more and he hoped to god his fingers weren’t turning white. He’d make sure to find a way to blame this on Moore even though technically he’d been the one to volunteer for this little ‘excursion.’ Kalashnikov crossed his arms and shifted on the equally chilly corrugated flooring.

Before he had a chance to react, the Ripsaw Imperator closed the distance between the two men and pulled the Major to his chest. Surprised, he stifled an undignified squawk as his right hand flew instinctively to his favorite Buntline Special by his side. Ripsaw laughed, the sound low and muffled. Kalashnikov could feel the rise and fall of the other man’s chest at the outburst.

“Take it easy, Major,” Ripsaw rumbled. “Gotta conserve body heat. Whole crew’s freezing.”

“Lucky I didn’t blow your fuku-damned head off, Imperator,” the Major grumbled halfheartedly. Ripsaw was right; even through his ammunition-lined garb he could feel the heat of the other’s body on his skin. His favorite Imperator seemed unusually warm tonight despite the chilly atmosphere. Not that he was complaining.

Facing each other, Kalashnikov examined the other man’s expression. The symmetrical scars on the other’s cheekbones were clearly intended to resemble the contours of a skull. A far cry from frightening, he thought. It did serve to accent his features, though. Not that Ripsaw’s features even needed more definition. The man’s torso was tough, chiseled as if from a block of sandstone or granite. Forearms thick around as the barrel support on a .50 cal, and if looks were anything, twice as sturdy.

Stop thinking about weapons, you sick fuck! Kalashnikov forced himself to look back up at the Imperator’s face. Ripsaw immediately avoided his gaze. Odd. He’s always been comfortable with eye contact. He followed Ripsaw’s averted gaze down and instantly the Imperator shifted, as if to conceal someth—

_Oh._

Kalashnikov didn’t even try to conceal the wolfish grin that creased his features. “So that’s what you meant when you said ‘conserve body heat,’ Ripsaw,” he snarked. “I should have known.”

The man in question shifted away again and the Major latched onto his shoulder with a gloved hand, holding him still. “No, you’re not getting out of this one that easy, Imperator. We both know you’d hate to leave before anything”—Kalashnikov gave a pointed stare—“got _taken care of_.” His hand went to his side, ghosting over his glossy Buntline. “Besides, my gals have been itchin’ for a go for a while now.” He examined the other’s eyes for any hint of fear. He found none. Perfect.

Without thinking, Kalashnikov moved to press their lips together hungrily. The kiss was hard, all metal on teeth, Ripsaw allowing the Major to guide his motions easily. Kalashnikov’s fingers snaked along Ripsaw’s shaved neck, searching for a means to hold the other in place. Eventually he gave up and opted instead to straddle him, pinning Ripsaw’s head to the cold metal floor of the Peacekeeper truck bed with his mouth.

Grinning, the Major nipped slightly at Ripsaw’s lip as he withdrew, his breathing noticeably more labored. He examined his handiwork. Ripsaw’s lips were slightly swollen and ajar and his pupils blown impossibly wide. His wide gaze kept flicking from the Farmer atop him to the gun at his side and back again. A pleasant turn of events, Kalashnikov mused, and in an instant had the barrel of the gun pressed between those glittering hooded eyes.

Ripsaw’s breath hitched, his cock evidently taking interest. The Farmer could feel the press of it against his inner thigh. “Hah. Guessed as much, Imperator. I always thought…” He didn’t bother finishing the sentiment, too entranced by the younger man’s wanton expression as he trailed the barrel over the raised scar and across his lips. Fuck, he’d really gotten lucky that his best sharpshooter was also dazzlingly gorgeous. Gorgeous and apparently into the same shit that he himself was.

Ripsaw seemed to take the hint, letting Kalashnikov push the tip of the Buntline’s barrel slowly into his mouth. His mouth framed the barrel, his lips a perfect “O” around the glistening metal. 

Kalashnikov leaned in close. “ _Fuck,_ just like that,” he hissed, grinding slowly on the Ripsaw’s straining bulge. “Take ‘er as deep as you can. And use some tongue, boy, I’m sure you’re hardly new to this.” He licked a stripe up Ripsaw’s earlobe for emphasis and the younger man shivered.

Ripsaw did as he was told, tilting his head to let the Farmer slide the barrel all the way to the back of his throat. His teeth clicked against metal as he fought down his gag reflex, working his tongue along the cold metal of the gun. Ripsaw’s hips jerked upward, searching for the friction he so desperately needed as the Farmer worked the barrel in and out.

The click shot through both of them as Kalashnikov snapped the trigger back. Growling, he palmed himself through his worn fatigues with his free hand. _Fuck._ It’d been weeks since the last time either he or his guns had seen any action, and this was _just_ what they needed.

It was just what his favorite Imperator needed too, apparently. The man was moaning as best he could with a gun down his throat, his neglected cock likely aching by now. Kalashnikov briefly considered making him wait a while more. _No, that’d just be cruelty at this point. Give the poor boy what he wants. ___

He unsteadily withdrew the slick barrel from Ripsaw’s mouth, letting the muzzle trail down his throat to his bare chest, the rapid rise and fall stark white in the relative darkness. Expectant eyes stared back up at him, confused as to why he’d stopped so suddenly.

Something sordid and gleeful thrummed in his chest. “What do you want, Imperator? _Ask_.” His slit-like eyes shone with playful malice. “Ask nicely.”

Stuttering, Ripsaw managed a broken “please” and Kalashnikov shook his head, chuckling. “Come on, you can do better than that. You know what to say. Fucking _beg._ ” Arousal pooled in the base of his spine and he pulled the trigger again, earning a whine from the man beneath him.

“ _Please,_ Major, sir,” Ripsaw hissed, the words rolling off his tongue far easier than Kalashnikov would’ve expected. “Please, sir, I need to…” His jumbled plea trailed off into a whine as the Major shifted to undo the man’s belt, wrapping his leather-clad hand around Ripsaw’s painfully hard, leaking cock. 

“ _Good boy,_ Ripsaw,” Kalashnikov growled, low and desperate. Setting his beloved weapon to one side, he roughly stroked himself through the cloth of his pants. Shit, Ripsaw made for a pretty pet despite his build. He wanted so badly to pull a collar ‘round his sinewy throat, wanted to show everyone that Ripsaw was his Imperator. He was close, he could tell, and if the noises from the other man were anything to go by, so was he. 

His grip tightened on Ripsaw and he deftly stroked until the man was clawing uselessly at the metal flooring. Leaning down until his lips grazed the shell of Ripsaw’s ear, he whispered, low and breathy. 

“You’re _mine,_ Imperator.” 

He thought he heard a quiet “I know” before they both came together, but it could have been his imagination.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, thanks to @graveparty for the help!
> 
> I can't believe how underappreciated this duo is.


End file.
